


His Love

by beetle



Category: Doom (2005), Star Trek
Genre: M/M, Post-Olduvai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:19:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His love is a man of many secrets. Written to the song prompt; ten random songs, and the duration of each song to write ten ficlets. Though I must admit on the last ficlet, I played the song twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Love

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Didn't do it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Set in the ST:XI 'verse, with a major character from Doom. DUB-CON and an attempted rape.

**Keane: Somewhere Only We Know**

  
  
The Arboretum is quiet at this time of night.  
  
  
The only people there are lovers looking for a secluded, private place to go for a simulated-moonlight walk. To canoodle somewhere besides sterile quarters or Jeffrey's tubes.  
  
  
Two such lovers walk, hand in hand, among a small apple orchard, not speaking, strolling along, lost in thought.  
  
  
"Is so peaceful, here, Doctor," one says softly, swinging his love's hands a little. His love smiles, and tugs him gently, till they're standing under a tree. His love leans against it, and he leans against his love, sighing happily.  
  
  
They kiss tenderly, lost in each other in a way they've never been lost in the Arboretum.  
  
  
Soon, the other lovers walking around, whether near or far, cease to matter. For a little while anyway, this place belongs only to them.  
  
  


**Coldplay: Trouble**

  
  
Sometimes, his love wakes from a thin repose that passes for sleep, gasping for breath, panting and fighting a scream that seems doomed to languish behind his teeth.  
  
  
On these nights, his love is nearly beyond comfort, choosing simply to hold him too-tight, and rock him, as if  _he's_  the one with nightmares so horrible they make some nights a living Hell.  
  
  
"Tell me, please," he asks soothing his love's sides and back. "What do you dream? Tell me?"  
  
  
"I love you," his love says, and that's not what he wants to hear at this moment. His love knows this, and  _he knows_  his love knows this.  
  
  
Secrets lie between them like a third person in their relationship.  
  
  
"I'll tell you someday," his love says sometimes, but rarely. "Someday I'll tell you, and someday you'll leave me."  
  
  
"I'll never leave you."  
  
  
His love never replies to that, but the  _yes, you will,_  is as loud as doom.  
  
  
Somehow, they manage to get back to an unrestful sleep.  
  
  


**The Killers: Smile Like You Mean It**

  
  
When they make love, it's usually slow and gentle, like a poem, or a song, or a full-body kiss.  
  
  
Other times, his love seems to burn with wanting him . . . holds him down and pushes into him with little preparation, little ceremony.  
  
  
These times are as scary as they are exhilarating. He comes panting and screaming out his pleasure, his pain, and his love still goes on, seemingly unable to find his release, till he finally stills briefly, then thrusts into him once, hard, and comes, groaning so low it's almost a growl.  
  
  
It's times like these, when he rolls over, letting his love slide out of him--letting him get up and stalk off to the bathroom to lock himself inside for the rest of the night--that he wants to ask _who are you? Where is the man who kisses me till we fall asleep?_  
  
  
But he never asks.  
  
  
As curious as he is, he's learned, late in life, that one should only ask questions one wants the answers to.  
  
  


**U2: Stuck In A Moment**

  
  
"Please, tell me why."  
  
  
His love shakes his head no, and walks away. Comes back and kneels, taking his hands and squeezing them. "I just can't."  
  
  
" _Why?_  
  
  
His love sighs. "You know I have secrets--things I can't talk about--"  
  
  
"Keep them! I don't care!" He frees one hands to caress his love's face. Dark, harried eyes stare into his own, begging for an absolution that they will always have, and readily, but is never quite enough. "Keep them forever, only let me keep  _you_  forever. Don't leave me. I love you."  
  
  
"I love  _you_ , and that's why. . . ." his love pulls away, wiping his mouth, his eyes, looking everwhere else but at him. "It's better this way."  
  
  
"Better for who? For you? For me?" He snorts angrily, standing up. He looks at his love, still kneeling like a penitent. Or a man about to propose.  
  
  
The fact that he's not, that he never will, is the harshest blow of all.  
  
  
But he refuses to cry, or to beg anymore than he already has.  
  
  
"If you value your secrets more than you value what we have, then I suppose it  _is_  over."  
  
  
He walks away, though every step feels like walking on broken glass.  
  
  


Radiohead: Karma Police

  
  
Now, his love--former love--isn't the only one who has nightmares.  
  
  
He tosses and turns most nights since the proposal-that-never-came, eaten alive by anger, remorse, regret, and guilt.  
  
  
He's never had a secret in his life, but for one: that he was madly in love with a man who was impossibly high above him, who probably didn't know he was alive . . . and that one secret was told in his eyes, in his very being whenever he was alone with this man. Until finally,  _finally_ , his feelings were returned.  
  
  
And then he had no more secrets.  
  
  
And then life was wonderful.  
  
  
Days were filled with promise, nights were filled with love, and the moments in between were yearning incarnate till he was in his love's arms once more.  
  
  
He's not a man of secrets. He's only ever had one worth telling and it was told a long time ago.  
  
  
But now, he's a man of desperate days, lonely nights, and moments of pure anxiety that only increase when his former love is near. Now, he drags through his life like a golem, neither living nor dead.  
  
  


**The Strokes: Last Nite**

  
  
On the first night of a most disastrous leave:  
  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
  
He shivers in his torn clothing, gaping at his former love, who stands in the reeking back-alley, panting and thrumming with kinetic energy.  
  
  
"I don't know, anymore."  
  
  
"No! That is unacceptable! Tell me, at long last, who you really are!"  
  
  
His former love is a long time acknowledging him, merely staring down at the bodies of the three hulking Frisiians who'd had rape on their minds and violence in their hands. Till his former love swept down on the alley like an avenging angel and economically ended their lives with fairly little exertion.  
  
  
"Who are you?" he demands, for the third time.  
  
  
Hesitantly, his former love tells him. Purges all his secrets in one quiet rush.  
  
  
When his former love's done, there's nothing between them, now, but silence. Silence and the other thing that's been between them since the very first kiss.  
  
  
Despite the events of the evening, when his former love turns him to face the wall and presses against him--brushing aside torn jeans and pushing down underwear that's already askew, he doesn't resist. Doesn't do anything, but let himself be prepared with saliva and fumbling fingers. Let's himself be penetrated, and doesn't know whether he wants it, needs it, or hates his former love for it.  
  
  
But it feels familiar. Feels  _good_ , even in a reeking alley, the corpses of his attempted rapists cooling behind them.  
  
  
Even though he's not entirely sure he wants it.  
  
  


**The Verve: The Drugs Don’t Work**

  
  
On the second night of a most disastrous leave:  
  
  
He finds his former love in a dive bar, the kind of place where, for a price, you can buy a dose of anything, be it animal, vegetable, mineral, or person.  
  
  
As he steps in, he can feel eyes on him, measuring and weighing him, putting a price on him. But he ignores it, pulling his dignity around him like a mantle, and strides to a corner booth. Slides in and removes bottle and glass from his former love's hand. Bleary eyes meet his own.  
  
  
"Wha--?"  
  
  
"Be quiet," he says, and his love crouches like a wounded animal, closing his eyes.  
  
  
"Go away."  
  
  
"You need not do this to yourself."  
  
  
"And you need to bring me up on assault charges. Or at least you ought," his former love says lowly, eyes skittering everywhere in the booth, lingering on the glass hungrily.  
  
  
"You did not assault me. There are no charges to be brought."  
  
  
"You may not have resisted, but you didn't actually consent, either."  
  
  
"I could have asked you to stop."  
  
  
"You coulda," his former love grunts. "Doesn't mean I woulda."  
  
  
"No, it does not. But the point is moot, now. You did not stop, and I did not ask you to. What is done is done. Regret it if you must, but do not destroy yourself over what could have happened."  
  
  
He stands up and holds out his hand.  
  
  
It's a minute before his former love takes it, but take it he does, and seems bemused when he gets pulled up.  
  
  


**The Cardigans: Lovefool**

  
  
He's taken to following his former love around whenever they're on Leave.  
  
  
He's not certain why, whether to protect him, or simply torture himself, but this, too, is a moot point, since he can't seem to help himself. Since his former love both knows and doesn't care that he's being followed.  
  
  
He dreads the night when his former love takes someone new into his bed, though the likelihood of that is small, as he does nothing so much with his free time as drink himself to oblivion and occasionally pick fights that he mostly looses. Only to let himself be helped back to his hotel, or the ship, stumbling and swearing. And holding on too tight, even when he's lowered into bed.  
  
  
"Why?" his former love asks, drink roughening his normally smooth voice.  
  
  
He doesn't know how to answer his former love, so he simply tucks him in, and kisses his forehead.  
  
  
"Go to sleep," he says without inflection. Or: "I will stay until you fall asleep."  
  
  
He doesn't know about any other nights, but on these nights, his former love's sleep is nightmare free.  
  
  


**Coldplay: Cemeteries Of London**

  
  
"Go home."  
  
  
"No."  
  
  
This time, when he joins his former love in yet another corner booth, the glance is not so bleary. In fact, it's dead sober.  
  
  
His former love, it appears, has been waiting for him.  
  
  
"Look, kid--"  
  
  
"Do not call me that. I haven't been a kid since the time we first made love."  
  
  
His former love doesn't seem to know how to respond to that. Clears his throat and clutches his glass. It appears to be filled with soda water.  
  
  
"You can't keep doing this. Following me around, trying to--I dunno, save me. I was lost long before you were even born."  
  
  
"I do not want to save you. That is not why I follow you."  
  
  
"Then why?" his former love demands, grabbing his wrist snake-quick and squeezing hard enough to bruise. "Out of some misguided hope that we can still be together?"  
  
  
"No." He shakes his head once, tears in his eyes as he looks away, then looks back. There are no secrets between them, now, and he means to keep it that way. "I follow you because I cannot help myself. I love you, and if this is the only way I can be with you, then I will follow you till my legs give out."  
  
  
His former love sighs, shaking his head. He looks defeated and small.  
  
  
"I'm a sinking ship. I'll only drag you down with me."  
  
  
He covers his former love's hand, the one biting into his wrist. "Do you still love me?"  
  
  
"You know I do."  
  
  
"Then down is where we will go. Together."  
  
  
"No." His former love is up and striding toward the door, powerful shoulders set and tense  
  
  
"Please, Reaper . . . John, I need you," he says softly, knowing that his former love will hear. Along with the enhanced strength, he also has enhanced senses.  
  
  
And indeed, he flinches at  _Reaper_  . . . but he keeps walking, too.  
  
  


**ABBA: Take A Chance On Me**

  
  
"Enter at your own risk!" his former love barks irritably, at first not looking up to see who's requesting entrance to his office.  
  
  
When he does, that irritation turns to consternation. Then back to irritation that's just not as believable as it was a moment ago.  
  
  
"Please state the nature of your medical concern," he says woodenly.  
  
  
"Does a broken heart count?"  
  
  
"Hah! No." His former love looks back down at his PADD, but not before a tiny smile curves his lips ever so slightly. "Seriously, no. So, if you don't mind, I have actual work that needs my attention."  
  
  
" _I_  need your attention."  
  
  
"You need  _Leonard McCoy_ 's attention, but he doesn't really exist. Not in the way you want him to. I'm just playing a part. The latest of many."  
  
  
He shakes his head once, and skirts the desk till he's at his former love's side.  
  
  
"Were you just playing a part when you told me you loved me?"  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
"You are lying."  
  
  
His former love looks up, his eyes wide and helpless. "What do you want me say? That I want you so much, not having you hurts? That I can't sleep, can't think, can't fucking  _breathe_  without you? That I'm walking around like a dead man, and that the idea of spending the rest of my life without you makes me wish I was? Is that what you wanted me to say?"  
  
  
After a brief, stunned silence, he smiles, and his soon-to-be love frowns.  
  
  
"That," he says, laughing a little, "is  _exactly_  what I wanted you to say. And now,  _you_  will listen to what  _I_  have to say."  
  
  
And he stands there, staring down into his love's eyes until that unguarded, unhappy look gives way to genuine irritation once more.  
  
  
"Well, Ensign? Are you gonna say somethin' before I expire of old age? Not that--"  
  
  
It's here that, laughing again, Pavel Chekov cuts off his soon-to-be love with a long kiss. Every time his soon-to-be love tries to break it, he redoubles his efforts. Straddles his lap and stays straddled till hot hardness answers his own.  
  
  
"Now. Was any of that unclear, Doctor?"  
  
  
"I, uh . . . think I might need further clarification. . . ."  
  
  
He kisses his soon-to-be love again, this time briefly.  
  
  
"You will give me a chance?"  
  
  
A soft, not entirely unhappy smile. "Will you go away if I say no?"  
  
  
He grins. "Of course not."  
  
  
His soon-to-be love thinks that over, then leans their foreheads together. "I say 'no' a lot."  
  
  
"So I have noticed. But I still will not go away."  
  
  
"So I've noticed." His soon-to-be love kisses him again, a yearning, intense sort of kiss that makes him glad he's sitting since his legs go to rubber.  
  
  
" _S'olnyshko_ , my sweetheart, my love," his murmurs between kisses. "I will never leave you. No matter what you have done, no matter who you were. I love you. I will never stop loving you."  
  
  
"Promise me that?"  
  
  
"I promise."  
  
  
"Forever?"  
  
  
"I cannot promise  _forever_. Only the rest of my life," he says simply, and he can only hope that's enough.  
  
  
"In that case." His love smiles a little, and the next thing he says is clearly hard for him to get out, but get it out he does. He's nothing, if not brave. "In that case, I guess I could take a chance on you."


End file.
